


He Stands Alone Because He's High on Himself

by orphan_account



Series: But If You Only Knew [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as it honestly pains Stiles to admit it, things are changing and he has to either hide away forever or let himself get into the fray. (Or, the one where Stiles is a professor with intense OCD and serious issues and Derek owns his own coffee shop.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Stands Alone Because He's High on Himself

**Author's Note:**

> This might become a series, with you know actual romantic development. I dunno. This idea was actually sparked by the urge to write Scott/Isaac, but then that ended up taking a back burner, haha.
> 
> Anyways, as usual, enjoy!

“Hey, Scott, you getting up any time soon because I need a ride to class. I'll buy breakfast _oh my god my_ _ **eyes**_ _._ ” Stiles stops in the threshold of Scott's bedroom door, an arm slung over his eyes to protect them from the mess of limbs on his roommates bed. He whimpers, lip curling pitifully, and backs slowly out of the room. “Nevermind,” he says loudly, over Scott's shouting, “I can walk.”

He keeps his eyes shielded until he almost topples down the stairs of their apartment complex. He finally blinks in the sunlight, and shoves his hands in his coatpockets. Despite being determined not to think about what he just witnessed, Stiles makes a mental note to have a long talk with Scott about the meaning of socks on doorknobs and how while Stiles appreciates Scott getting over Alison he doesn't need to _see_ it.

He checks his watch, realizing he has quite a bit of time to spare, and looks around. The streets are a little crowded, but he manages not to get jostled too much. He ducks into a nearby coffee shop, and thinks about how proud his dad would be of him for shaking up routine.

Stiles approaches the counter cautiously, as if it'll bite him. A voice startles him bad enough that he stumbles and almost knocks over the carefully organized display of seasonal mugs. “Careful.” The voice says, monotone and _belated_.

“Sorry.” Stiles squeaks, adjusting a cup that's turned just slightly. Nothing falls, though, so he counts it as a win. “Anyways, uh, what's good here?”

The man looks at him, eyes icy blue and beard probably sentient. “Everything.” And Stiles wonders how one word can sound so perfectly rehearsed.

“Anything... in particular?” Stiles prompts, anxiously checking his watch. If it takes him another ten minutes to get his drink and get out of here then he'll still have plenty of time to get to the campus. If it takes him any longer than precisely ten minutes then Stiles is pretty sure he'll have an anxiety attack.

Stiles blinks with a hefty scent invades his nostril. However, he doesn't jump. “Enjoy.” And despite the fact the employee is clearly a caveman, capable of only monosyllabic responses, Stiles licks his lip at the scent of caramel and chocolate and nutty goodness. He goes for his wallet, but the man grunts.

“On the house.” He answers, and Stiles swears the man's face pinks. Stiles beams. “Next time, though.”

“Of course.” Stiles says, because there will definitely be a next time. He curls his fingers around the styrofoam cup, scratching his nails along the heat guard on the outside, and nods to the employee. “Thanks!” He says, then he's back on the street, comfortably on his way to campus.

*

Stiles let himself into his apartment where, predictably, Scott was cooking in his boxers and socks. He looks nervous and anxious, but instead of calling him out on this morning Stiles goes to the fridge. “So, on my way to class this morning I stopped in at that coffee shop and got.. well, whatever the guy gave me.”

The spatula Scott had been using to flip the chicken almost clattered to the counter. “You _what_?” Scott's voice is high and shrill as he rounds on his best friend/roommate/keeper.

Stiles grins as he twists the top of his Snapple. “Right?”

Scott's eyes are cartoonishly wide. “You _changed_ your routine.” He says, awestruck. “And no one _forced_ you to.” Scott breaks into a grin. “Stiles, that's great!”

Stiles can't help but return the hug, even if he's a little tense about it. “I was pretty proud of myself.” He agrees, leaning against the counter. Scott nods and returns to his cooking. Stiles can smell the fries in the oven, and relishes the scent of lemon pepper that tickles his nose. “I'm gonna change, and then we'll eat?”

Scott nods, still smiling.

Stiles slips out of the kitchen to his own meticulously messy bedroom. Sure, he technically has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but that only extends to like ninety percent of his life. Like how he wakes up at five-forty-five every morning, and how he spends exactly one hour on the internet before really starting his day. It extends to the fact that he refuses to ever drive a car, no matter how much his dad tried to bribe him through high school. It extends to the fact that he needs a clearly defined routine, a step by step plan from Point A to Point Z. It's rooted, his therapist used to say to him, in his mother.

But Stiles doesn't like to get into the finer points of it, because as far as he's concerned it's how life always has been and always will be. He doesn't feel there's a cure because he finds nothing wrong with how he always keeps his laptop on the right tablet beside his bed, though he sleeps on the left half of his bed; he sees nothing wrong with eating the same thing for breakfast, he doesn't understand why people think it's weird that he hasn't willingly initiated a hug in over eight years.

“Are you okay in there, Stiles?” Comes from Scott after a soft rapping on the door. Stiles smiles at the pajama pants halfway up his legs.

“Yeah, Scott, I'm good.”

He opens the door, coming face to face with a concerned Scott. Were he 'normal' he'd probably put a comforting hand on Scott's shoulder, smile at him and maybe hug him.

Instead, “I'm good.” He assures, and then motions for Scott to lead the way, because people aren't allowed to walk behind Stiles.

*

They're sitting on the couch, plates in their laps and drinks at their feet, when Stiles decides Scott's grace period is over. “So, that was quite the brunette in your bed this morning.” He says, careful and measured.

Scott chokes on a particularly large fry, and oh how Stiles relishes the irony.

“Now, you know I'm going to be the last person to give you crap for who you sleep with. It's your business, and if your business gets freaky, then I certainly am not one to talk.” He makes a vague motion to himself and his own business. “But,” he says, “I would appreciate being told that my best friend is gay, or bisexual, or whatever.”

Scott looks guilty.

Stiles carries on. “It doesn't make me uncomfortable. I know I can't expect you to—to base your life around me and the guidelines,” their nickname for the OCD, which makes it no less glaringly obvious to what their referring, “I could never expect that of you.” But only because he _tried_ and it lead to Scott living with Alison for six months until Stiles had a panic attack with no one there to help him.

Scott fidgets. “He's been coming into the shop a lot, lately and..” He shrugs, but there's a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “He's really nice, and funny, and he doesn't make me feel like I'm stupid.” There's still a hint of bitter there, Alison leaving traces of her bitchitude everywhere. Stiles nods, and know this is the time when he should elbow Scott teasingly, but he can't.

“Do I get to meet him?” Stiles asks, soft and unassuming in his tone.

Scott grins. “Soon.” He says, “I wanna—wanna get to know him outside the shop a little more, first. But after that, yeah, of course.”

Stiles grins, and tucks into his meal again.

*

Stiles shrugs on his sweatshirt and looks expectantly at Scott. “Wanna walk today? You can sit in on class. The kids won't mind.”

Scott bites his lip. “Walk, sure, but I'm meeting Isaac for a date, later.”

Stiles grins. “Okay.” He waves away Scott's look—a little guilty, a little too careful. “I don't care. But we've gotta stop at that one place on our way there.” He says as Scott locks the door. The walk to the coffee shop is quick, and Scott holds the door for Stiles, and they laugh and talk idly as they wait in the short line.

The man, from before, is working again. He actually seems to be the _only_ person working. Stiles grins vibrantly, and waves. “Hi!”

He just nods.

“So, uh, two of whatever you made me before.” Stiles says, grinning wider still and pulling out his wallet.

The man nods, types a few things into the register, and accepts the ten from Stiles, handing back barely a few dollars in change. Stiles doesn't care, though, because as soon as the chocolate-caramel-pecan scent hits him, it's all so very worth it.

“Thanks!”

*

Even Scott agrees, when they part ways at Stiles' class, that the cappa-mocha-frappe-whatever was pretty good.

Scott doesn't even _like_ coffee.

*

“Uh, Professor?”

Stiles looks up from the book in his hands, and nods. “Yes, Laura?”

“I noticed that when you walked in today, you had—ah—that cup.”

Stiles blinks, and nods. “I live near the coffee shop.” He says.

Laura nods. “Uh, would you like a discount? I can do that. I mean, you're my professor and it's the least I can do because, you know, favorite class and everything.”

Stiles can only imagine how ridiculous he looks when his eyebrows shoot up close to his hairline. “This is your favorite class?” Tumbles out of his mouth, instead of what he meant. “Really?” He ventures further, because never in his three and a half years of teaching has he had anyone tell him that his class—something caught between psychology, current domestic issues, and analyzing pop culture and media—was their _favorite_.

“Oh, yeah, totally.” She says with an air of excitement. “This is really my only fun class besides Music Theory, so, yeah.”

Stiles nods, smiling. “Discount?” He mentions, abstract and belated.

“Mhmm. It's my family's coffee shop. My brother owns it, technically, but you know, family.” She enunciates 'family' especially hard.

Stiles grins. “That'd be nice but I already got my first coffee free.” He stands, gathering his things as the last of the students file out. “I'd hate to impose.” He uses his best professor voice, which everyone tells him is awful. He's making sure everything is set up and ready and clean, when he realizes Laura is still standing there.

“You sure?” She asks. “Because it's really no trouble. We hardly ever charge people anyways, big family trust fund, all that.” She seems desperate to get him to accept. “Derek just really likes making coffee for people.”

Stiles laughs. “Is he the near silent brooding one who works the register?”

Laura doesn't share the amusement. “Well, yeah, he's the only one who works there.”

Stiles isn't as surprised as he thought he'd be. “Right. Well, sure, I guess, then. Discount?” He winces at the stunts and stops as he talks.

Laura grins. “Discount. Wanna head there right now? I'm going that direction, anyways, but, you know.” She's still smiling, and briefly Stiles wonders how she makes awkward look stunningly gorgeous. He nods, and locks the classroom door behind him.

*

“Derek!” Laura announces, letting herself behind the counter and engulfing her brother in a hug. The cafe is voice of customers, and Stiles finds it a little comforting—the streets had been crowded and he had barely maintained his composure. “This is my professor.”

Derek's eyes, disgruntled but fond, flicker to Stiles. He nods.

“He's usually very talkative,” Laura observes with a teasing, big sister grin, “I think you make him shy, Professor.”

“Laura, call me Stiles.” He says delicately.

She grins, and Stiles can't help but feel he's fallen into a trap.

“Derek, why don't you walk Stiles home?” Laura suggests, and she looks ready to barrel through with her plan, but Stiles cuts across.

“No, no,” he waves his hands and fiddles with the scarf around his neck. It's also when he nervously pushes his glasses up his nose that he realizes he should take off his reading glasses. “I'd rather he didn't.” Stiles says, “no offense,” he adds, almost tripping over his tongue. “It's just, I have a routine and I've already changed it a lot for the day. And that's good, that's really good, but, Laura you know how it is.”

Because she does, because Stiles' first thing he does with a new class is to explain his 'routines' and why the red markers are only allowed to be used on the right board and the blue on the left and how only he's allowed to write with the black markers.

She nods, “sorry.” And she looks genuinely apologetic. “Oh!” Laura looks at her brother. “He gets the Discount from now on.”

Derek simply nods.

“Right, well, I should go home because it's my turn for dinner.”

“Would you like a coffee?” Derek asks, and Stiles realizes it's only the third time he's ever heard Derek speak.

“Uh,” he swallows nervously. Alongside the OCD is a heavy dose of ADD, and more coffee is the last thing he really needs. “Maybe tea?” He asks instead, ignoring the way his skin itches because _it's too much different in one day_.

*

A week later, everything falls apart because Scott brings Isaac home and Isaac pulls Stiles into a half hug. To his credit, he apologizes when Stiles tenses, but Scott is shouting and it's all turning into a dull rushing roar in his ears. Stiles' skin is prickling, trying to crawl off his bones. He can't hear anything and his mouth is dry.

He locks himself in the bathroom for hours, crying for half the time, sleeping for the rest. All in all, it's probably the worst “meeting Scott's latest romantic interest” experience ever—and there's been quite a few.

After Isaac is gone, Scott promises that Isaac is worth it. Stiles believes him, and swears that he'll be up for meeting him—someday.

*

The day comes far sooner than Stiles would've hoped. He's got cookies for his class, because it's their last class before winter break, and he'd like to garner a reputation as the freakish but wonderful human psychology/sociology teacher. And what better way to get that rep than cookies? He's got them in numerous tupperware boxes, and he and Scott are about to leave when the doorbell rings.

Stiles, unashamedly, makes a desperate and uneasy whining noise in the back of his throat. Scott answers the door, and greets Isaac with a hug and a kiss, and Stiles is happy that Alison is gone from their lives entirely.

“Uh, is it okay is Isaac comes with? There's no point in leaving him here, right?”

Stiles' only comfort is that this wasn't planned, so he's completely justified in his freaking out. He takes the back seat—because no one is allowed behind Stiles, and Scott knows that—and he almost chokes on his tongue when Isaac fiddles with the radio station. Stiles knows deep in the back of his mind that he's overreacting, and that more than anything he should be congratulating Scott, because Isaac is sweet and charming and a catch but he's also messing with all of Stiles' shit.

Stiles makes a strangled noise of violent distress and flings himself from the now parked car, barely casting a wave at Scott before crashing into his class. Most of the students are already there, and Stiles wordlessly sets up the tubs of cookies. “One each, if you want, once everyone has had one it's fair game.” He instructs, knowing that he'll probably have to poke one of the students with his “I Don't Touch People So This is The Best I Can Do To Properly Discipline You” ruler.

(He does, and it's Jackson Whittemore who's only in his class because he's stalking Lydia Martin.)

Laura skids into class five minutes late, Derek in tow.

“Uh, hi.” Stiles greets as she drags Derek to her seat. “Well,” he carries on as usual, though, because if he's being honest Laura is a favorite, and she can do whatever she pleases within reason. “Since it's our last day of class, I didn't really make a lesson plan. We could have a discussion, about something _relevant_ , and if you choose not to participate, that's fine.” He smiles at his class and is literally _tickled_ to see students smiling back.

“How about you, Professor?”

Stiles stiffens. “Me?” He laughs nervously. “What's there to talk about?”

The girl who spoke up shrugs, chewing on the end of her pencil. “We were all made to write essays about us, so, it's kind of unfair.”

Stiles hardens his stare. “I gave you all the speech at the beginning, that's all you need to know about me.” He tells them. “While it's always good to take interest in things, I am not one of those things.” He waits for the majority of the students to nod back. “Anything else?”

“The election?”

Stiles points a figure in the general direction of the voice as he strips off the scarf and heavy jacket. “Perfect, so, what do you think of the current candidates?”

*

He bids each and every student goodbye, waving but never getting within two feet of them. And none of them are offended (though some still perplexed) and they all wish him a good break. Laura and Derek hang back, though Derek looks like he'd rather the floor swallow him whole. “So, Stiles,” Laura comes devastatingly close to breaking the two feet rule. “Any big plans for your break?”

Stiles shakes his head, setting the ruler down in its designated spot. “Probably dealing with my routine being ruined by my roommates new boyfriend, who's far too nice for me to stay mad at.” And true to his word, his tone is far from angry. “That, and thoroughly abusing my discount.” He grins at the pair.

Laura is the only one to smile back, but Derek looks less uncomfortable. “Derek's great at what he does, huh?”

Stiles nods. “My roommate—the one who came in with me, once—doesn't even like coffee, and he really liked what you made us.” Stiles grins sheepishly at Derek, who nods a little less tense.

Laura not to subtly elbows Derek. “Derek has a question for you, Stiles.”

“No I don't.” Derek grunts.

Stiles looks between the two. His spine tingles because he feels like things are about to get very, very weird. Before they can though, he hurries to make sure all his things are in order—markers in the right spot, books stacked neatly, extra spiral notebooks layered the way he instructs them to be. When he faces the siblings again, Laura has just stopped whispering furiously to Derek and Derek looks pitiful and uncomfortable.

“Derek.” Laura elbows him harder, and she nods at Stiles. “Stiles.” And she turns back to Derek. “I'll be in the car.”

Which leaves him along with Derek, who is back to looking like the end of the world would be a blessing.

“I, uh, I'm sorry?” Stiles tries.

Derek shakes his head. “No.” He tells Stiles. “I. I'm sorry. For Laura. She's kind of.”

“Wonderful.” Stiles tells him. “Ms. Martin has a better grade but Laura actually really loves the class.”

Derek grins.

“Is she older than you?” He asks, inching towards the door, his skin getting tight again because it's about time for him to be heading home.

Derek nods. “By two years.”

“Fresh out of high school?” Stiles asks, partly out of genuine interest, partly because he knows small talk is considered pleasant and polite.

“Graduated early.” Derek answers. “Look, Stiles.” He swallows awkwardly, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date.” It comes out in a single rushed breath, and Stiles can almost feel the way Derek's heart is pounding.

It's Stiles turn to freeze in awkward terror, because this has never happened to him before. Between his mother dying at a young age, and his dad being a half-alcoholic, and the OCD and the ADD and _everything_... no one had _ever_ asked Stiles out. And, much like the aforementioned things, that was just how his life was, and he never really expected it to change.

“Ah.” Stiles stares at Derek who's staring at his shoes. “I don't—I've never, I shouldn't—you really don't want to, I'm—no, I mean not no to you but really, no to you to me to you?” Stiles' fingers flinch and twitch at his sides.

Derek actually looks amused, which only stresses Stiles out more.

“I—Laura told you, didn't she? I have a whole Titanic full of problems, and I don't think you really deserve to get tangled in that, it isn't fair, so I'm saying no, but not because—because I want to, or because I think you're a bad guy, you actually seem like a very nice guy even if you insist on speaking one word at a time—but I really just don't think that's a good idea like at all.” Stiles' chest heaves. “I'm so sorry I probably sound like such a jerk, and—?”

“Stiles, Stiles,” Derek's eyes are wide with concern. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to send you into an attack.”

Stiles nods and gains leverage on his breathing. “I'm sorry.” He breathes out.

Derek nods, stoic and understanding. “I get it. Laura did tell me.” Stiles feels like, were this a movie or maybe some sort of normal person's life, Derek might take a step forward and sweep him into a mind blowing kiss. However, Derek doesn't move other than to breath and blink, and Stiles is infinitely thankful. “I still want to, though. If not date, then friends.” Derek nods after he says it, as if it came out exactly as he meant it, as though he's proud.

It smacks Stiles in the face, at that moment, that he's far too old for Derek, and that should've been his first concern but it wasn't.

“Derek, I..” He sighs, and hugs his messenger bag for solidarity. “Alright, friends.” He nods because how can he say no to friendship? “Uh, I should really get going, my routine is already really off.”

Derek just nods, and doesn't offer a ride, because he knows Stiles will say no. And Stiles salutes him before slipping out the back entrance to hurry home in the snow. Stiles' ears are slightly chilled when he realizes that Derek has just adapted better to Stiles' fallacies than Scott, than Isaac, than even most of his students, in a matter of a few almost wordless meetings.

Stiles tugs his jacket closer, because despite all his insecurities, despite everything in his life being constant and direct and specific and _his_ , he almost feels ready to let someone else in, someone besides Scott and his father.

When a blaring horn scares a shrill scream out of him, Stiles mentally reaffirms the _almost_ part, but he finishes his walk home with a private smile in place.


End file.
